


Fall-back Plan

by fayrose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayrose/pseuds/fayrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Margaery meets with Sansa after her wedding to Tyrion, she decides that it is time for her fall-back plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall-back Plan

When Margaery’s letter of invitation comes, Tyrion turns it down for her.

“You’re best off out of that family,” he tells her, looking at her with his hands clasped strangely before him. He does that a lot, she’s noticed. She wonders if it has something to do with his arms being out of proportion – like clasping is meant to hide it, consciously or not.

She nods in answer to his words, her face downturned. He likes her being submissive, even though he pretends he doesn’t. She supposes it comes from having a taste for whores. His coin makes them do or say anything he wants, but it also makes them pretend that it doesn’t.

A day later, Sansa receives another letter – one passed to her covertly by one of Margaery’s cousins in the Sept.

_I will not take no for an answer. Especially, when the answer isn’t yours._

_All my love,_

_Margaery_

Sansa positively swoons when she reads it. For the first time since she was bundled bewildered into the Sept, she smiles. And it is thoughts of Margaery that does it.

She meets her out behind the Red Keep, in one of the gardens behind the big pavilions that house the Tyrell men. Margaery is turned away from her, looking out over the narrow sea with her forearms resting against the stone wall and her hair fluttering in wisps which have come loose from her twisted Reach hairstyle. When she hears Sansa coming, she turns quickly, unable to hide her look of surprised delight quick enough.

Sansa’s heart begins to thunder.

“I was beginning to think that you weren’t coming,” she says by way of explanation when it becomes clear that she has been caught out. She has her hands clasped before her, but it looks nothing like when Tyrion does it. It makes Margaery seem shy – as if she could ever be that – and it draws Sansa’s eyes to the deep V neckline of Margaery’s blue seafoam dress.

It is hard, but Sansa stops herself from saying that yes, of course she was coming. She would always come, so long as Margaery asks her.

“I had to lose my handmaiden,” Sansa says shyly. “They do not want me seeing you or your brother.”

Margaery does not need to ask who ‘they’ are. There was no dearth of rumours that the Lannisters have married Sansa Stark to Tyrion Lannister to prise her from the hold of the Tyrells. Such tactics are nothing scandalous, not with Winterfell for the taking. Sansa knows that she is fair game, just as any woman in her position would be.

“Well they will not find you here,” Margaery promises with her trademark crooked smile. She walks towards Sansa and takes her arm. Sansa realises that she smells of rose petals. “No one will get past my bannermen. I have made sure that we will be alone – completely alone.”

Margaery gives Sansa another of those mischievous smiles and all of Sansa’s worries fade amongst the revelation that Margaery’s smiles only serve to make her appear more innocent.

“Now, tell me,” Margaery prompts as she leads Sansa along the seafront, “what is it like being a married woman?”

Sansa turns her face towards the sea so that Margaery cannot see her expression. She is sure that her eyes will give her away, no matter how expressionless she works at keeping them.

“Everything I had hoped for,” she lies effortlessly, her voice at least not betraying her true thoughts. She has become very good at lying. Her father would be furious, what with all his insistence on honour.

Margaery squeezes her arm, dispelling her thoughts of her father and reminding her that she is brushing up against the sweetest and most lovely woman in the Seven Kingdoms. It is no time to dwell on the dead.

“I am glad to hear it. I was so very worried about you.”

“You needn’t worry.” She means it, but not because there is no cause for concern.

“Will you tell me then, what your wedding night was like? As I am sure you have heard, I never made it to mine with Renly. He was always… otherwise engaged.”

Sansa blushes. She can lie, she supposes, but what if she gets some detail wrong that will give her away. Then Margaery will know that she has lied to her, deceived her for some nefarious reason. She thinks of saying nothing at all, but Margaery is waiting for her answer – eyes wide and so beautifully blue.

“I… My lord husband means to wait,” Sansa says primly. She cannot see the harm in telling that, not to Margaery.

“Oh,” Margaery says softly, and for a second she looks hopeful and crestfallen all at once. “I…”

“Until I am older,” Sansa explains, not wanting to be seen as being disparaging towards her husband. She supposes it is quite decent of him, but she is not a child. Many women are married at her age, and some to men more than the twelve years their senior that Tyrion is to her.

Margaery is silent for a moment after Sansa speaks and then says, “Do you regret his decision, Sansa? Do you wish that he had not chosen to wait?”

Sansa remembers a conversation she had with Margaery about their sons and the lives they might lead. She wants that – a son she could call Eddard or Robb, not that Tyrion would ever allow it – but the thought of having a child with Tyrion or any Lannister turns her stomach. To imagine the act itself is unbearable. _That_ she cannot tell anyone.

Margaery offers her a sprig of foxglove that she had been cradling in her hand, and Sansa takes it and brings it up to breathe in its sweet scent without even really realising she is holding it at all. Her mind is too consumed with selecting the perfect words for her reply.

“I am eager to do my duty and give my lord husband a son,” Sansa says carefully. “That day cannot come too soon.”

“Oh, of course you want a son,” Margaery says dismissively, leading them around a bend and into a secluded garden. Butterflies take wing as they brush against the bushes on their way side-by-side through the narrow arch. “But I asked you whether you wish that Tyrion had done _his_ duty?”

“I…” Sansa does not know what to say. Her fingers worry at the foxglove until it has shed all of its petals.

“Who do you want, Sansa? Not Joffrey, certainly. My brother, perhaps? Or is there someone else who makes your heart beat quicken?”

“I…” Sansa stutters again. She remembers how fast her hear beat when she saw Margaery waiting for her. It is still beating that fast now, with no sign of ever slowing down. Not whilst Margaery is around to hasten it. “Your brother is very handsome.”

Margaery smiles and gestures for Sansa to take a seat on the stone love seat carved with seashells and bells that curves below an artful thicket of flowers and vines.

“You are very artful at avoiding answering questions,” Margaery observes, sitting beside Sansa and giving her hand a squeeze to show that there is no malice behind her words. Beneath Margaery’s fingers, Sansa’s hand is trembling. “Do I scare you, Sansa?”

Sansa shakes her head and pulls her hand away. “No, my lady! I did not mean to make you think that-”

“Then you are trembling for another reason,” Margaery interrupts, her voice as smooth, sweet and invigorating as lemon cream, “and I think I know what it might be.”

Holding Sansa’s gaze, Margaery reaches out for Sansa’s hand and brings it slowly towards her. When she breaks Sansa’s gaze, it is to let her eyes flutter closed – eyelashes brushing against Sansa’s palm as she presses a soft, lingering kiss there. The gesture has drawn Sansa forwards, making her bow her head to watch Margaery’s kiss. It means that Margaery only need look up and brush back Sansa’s gently curling auburn hair to press a second kiss to her lips.

“I think,” Margaery breathes, “that it is not my brother – as lovely as he might be – that you have eyes for.”

Sansa’s breaths come in little gasps. Her head is spinning.

When Sansa does not answer, Margaery kisses her again, and this time her bottom lip slips between Sansa’s, parting them. And for Sansa, that is the point of no return.

“It’s you,” she admits hurriedly, desperately, as the kiss deepens even more – deeper than she has ever dreamt.

“Oh sweetling,” Margaery breathes, crossing her wrists behind Sansa’s neck, “that I already know.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

“So?” Olenna questions when Margaery enters her solar that night. “Is the Stark girl content in her new marriage? Or do we still have a hope at winning icy Winterfell?”

Margaery smiles sweetly. “Who could be content in a marriage to Tyrion Lannister? The man has had more whores than his tailors use yards of fabric in a year.”

Olenna chuckles. Margaery always has been her favourite grandchild. “Are the rumours true? Is Sansa Stark still maiden?”

Margaery sits down beside her and pats her hand. “No, grandmother.”

“Well, I suppose an annulment was too much to hope for. It is a good job that I always have a fall-back plan, dear girl. Let this be a lesson to you.”

“Don’t worry, grandmother, I intend to never forget it.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated.


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